Trust Fall
by FarisPants
Summary: Sherlock gets miffed when he realizes that John's first response to getting injured is to call up Detective Inspector Lestrade. He decides to prove to John that he is perfectly capable of protecting John's back. But this is Sherlock we're talking about, and he can't really handle these interpersonal relationships.
1. Chapter 1

"Keep talking to me," Sherlock ordered, sprinting down the side street.

"I'd rather not," John wheezed, and Sherlock heard the pain colouring his voice like bright gashes on the inside of his chest. "I'm not going to pass out—"

"Prove it," Sherlock said sharply, hopping a fence and dancing across a few tabletops before leaping over the other side. "Keep talking."

"Hey!" a waiter shouted at him, glaring reproachfully behind him and holding a tray of beverages.

"TALK!" Sherlock spat into his mobile.

"What do you want to hear?" John asked wearily.

"I'm coming, I'm coming!" Sherlock said. "Just…tell me about one of your boring days at work."

"Sherlock, I don't work at the hospital anymore. I haven't worked there for months. How did you think I was maintaining a job while chasing you about London?"

"Right, right," Sherlock said. "Your latest girlfriend, what's popular on television these days, how….there's a siren on your side."

"Yeah," John said. "But I'll tell them to wait until you get here, okay? I told Greg that nothing can be touched until you get here."

"You called _Lestrade_?" Sherlock demanded, running into the side of a building. He could hear the sirens with his own ears now, not just through the phone.

"But he's not going to muss your scene," John said, and he was trying to sound calming, but his voice was too lanced with pain to have much of a soothing effect.

"You called _Lestrade_ before you called _me_," Sherlock said, leaning against the building he had run into.

"Yeah, well, you weren't going to call the ambulance, were you?" John said. "You've stopped running, haven't you? Sherlock, we can talk this out later, just don't leave me hanging right now."

"Tell _Lestrade_ to take you to the hospital," Sherlock snarled. "I won't be getting around to the scene for another hour or so."

"Sherlock—"

Sherlock ended the call and smashed his mobile against the wall. It picked up a few scratches, but still worked. He fired off a text to Lestrade—_Send updates_—and crept forward with soft footsteps.

He needed to see John's injuries.


	2. Chapter 2

"You're mad because I called Greg," John said, collapsing in his armchair and leaning his crutches against the armrest. Sherlock didn't reply, but his eyebrows furrowed and there was no way he was actually reading the book in his lap. "Sherlock—"

"I'm pleased that you were preserving the site," Sherlock corrected, resting the open book on his face and folding his hands on his stomach.

"Not that it mattered," John huffed, and a hand flew automatically to his ribs. "Did you actually go see the place, then? Did you figure anything out?"

"Of course I saw the place," Sherlock snapped. _John slumped up against a chain-link fence, hand clutching his mobile cradling his head while the other holds his sweater pressed against the slash in his ribs, looking up with a relieved smile at Lestrade, who looks worried and sympathetic and __**is not Sherlock**_. "I apprehended your attackers yesterday. They will be found in a few hours."

"You didn't—"

"I didn't kill them. I can't speak, however, speak on behalf of last night's weather." Sherlock bared his teeth in a smile, causing the book to ride up on his face. "The case is closed."

"How did you figure it out?" John asked, and Sherlock realized that John was trying to weasel himself back into good graces.

"Torture," Sherlock said simply. "Borrrrrring. Give me your mobile."

"Okay?" John said, shifting his weight about in his seat so that he could get into his pocket. He tossed it across the room and it landed on Sherlock's stomach before sliding into the cushions of the couch.

The call history wasn't anything unexpected. John had called Harry yesterday; Sherlock and Greg the day before that; Mike, Clara, and Harry the day before that; and…Mycroft…?

"Do you trust me, John?" Sherlock asked, flipping through recent text messages.

"I trust what I know about you," John said.

"Don't give me a shifty response like that," Sherlock snapped, sitting up abruptly. His book fell to the ground.

"I'm giving you an honest answer," John said. "I trust that you'll keep things interesting, that you'll push me to think more, that you'd fight for my life—"

"So what don't you trust me to do?"

"Keep me out of danger," John said automatically.

"You like danger," Sherlock said before he could catch himself.

"I also like living," John replied, just as fast. "Look, Sherlock, I live with you because I get this weird thrill off of danger."

"You like helping people," Sherlock corrected.

"And danger. You established that in the very beginning, didn't you? I depend on you for my daily dose of danger. But I'm going to get hurt. That part is inescapable."

"You don't mind getting hurt."

"That's true," John said. "But when I feel scared, when death feels like it's trying to claim me, you're not someone I naturally turn to. Not that, it's not, it's just…if I were on my deathbed, I'd want you to be there. You're just not someone I associate with safety."

"You don't trust me to ensure your safety."

"I depend on it," John said. "How could I associate you with safety?"

"Because I know you," Sherlock said, laying down each word like a punch. "I know your strengths and your weaknesses."

"You test them, too," John said. "You make me realize that I'm stronger than I think I am; that I'm weaker than I realized. But there's always this moment, Sherlock, where I don't know what you know—"

"—naturally—"

"You make me feel like I'm falling. Sometimes I can catch myself, and sometimes you catch me; but when something happens the way it did a couple of days ago, I don't want that uncertainty."

"I can keep you safe," Sherlock declared, turning to face the wall.

"Not while putting me in danger," John said. "And that's why I'm still here. Let Greg be the boring clean-up, back-up man, okay? This works. I'm okay with this."

"I'm not!"

"Well then fix it!" John roared, clambering to his feet. "I've knocked aside every bit of common sense to live with you Sherlock. I've given up on a lifetime dream of being a doctor, I've come to _expect_ to need my gun on my person at all times, I've been part of innumerable experiments, and I've given up prospects of ever getting a proper girlfriend. Living with you is a full-time dangerous, thankless job; I'm constantly having to satisfy Mycroft because _you_ can't have a proper conversation with your own brother—"

"Then don't live with me—"

"Shut up!" John barked, hobbling across the room and whacking Sherlock with one of his crutches. "I just told you that I'm okay with this, but I do need some sense of security, someone outside of this crazy house who can still understand. Greg is that—"

"His name is Lestrade."

"Right," John said shortly. "I'll keep that in mind, _Holmes_." He looked around the room and, after closing his eyes for a few seconds, started hobbling towards the door. "I'm going out for a bit."

"Grab a coat before you go," Sherlock said automatically.

"Don't tell me," John said, grabbing his coat and attempting to wiggle into it for a moment before giving up and wrapping it around his shoulders.

"Grab dinner on your way back in."

"Forage for yourself," John grumbled.

"Thai, if you don't mind."

"I'm not getting you food."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "Make sure you eat, though. There's no food in the flat at the moment."

"If you're trying to guilt trip me into getting you food—"

"I don't need any."

"Good."

A few hours later, John returned to the kitchen to find Sherlock in exactly the same location.

"I'm putting my leftovers in the fridge," he called out.

"There's no room in the fridge," Sherlock replied, not turning around to face John.

"Then I suppose you'd better eat it," John said, handing Sherlock an untouched take-out dinner and a set of chopsticks.

"Grab me a fork," Sherlock ordered. "You know I've no use for chopsticks."

"Must of slipped my mind," John smirked, clomping over to the kitchen. "Oh, but it looks like there aren't any clean forks and it's definitely your turn to do the dishes."

"Bah," Sherlock grumbled, opening up the take-out box and slurping a noodle.

"Sherlock, you understand what I said earlier, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock said primly. "You use me to fulfill your appetite for danger, you've sacrificed things that you like in life to live with me so that I may fulfill your appetite for danger, but you can't trust me to get you through danger."

"Just brink of death," John corrected. "Otherwise, we're fine. I didn't call Greg first to spite you."

"Obviously."

"I'll follow you to my death, Sherlock, but all of my instincts are saying to get away. It's only in those moments—"

"I understand," Sherlock said. "But I'll win you over."

"What?"

"I'm going to win your trust," Sherlock declared, sitting bolt upright. "You're going to trust me even if you can't help but to do so—"

"That's not necessary. As long as I'm thinking clearly—"

"No!" Sherlock interrupted, slurping down another noodle. "Thinking doesn't play a part of it."

"Never thought I'd hear that from you."

"Context is everything, my dear Watson." Sherlock angled a wink at him. "Intellect is nothing without a field of context. Grab me a fork, John?"

John didn't remember that he had planned on the leaving the dishes for Sherlock until after he had scrubbed and tossed him a fork.

"The rest of the dishes are yours," he added sternly as he could manage while Sherlock was slurping take-out in his silk violet dressing gown. "Right, then, I'm off to bed."

"We'll start tomorrow," Sherlock called, and John limped back into the living room.

"What's this we're starting?"

"For the next week, you'll do your best to commit suicide."

"And this is supposed to make me trust you?"

"Precisely."

"Maybe," John said, standing a bit straighter, "you misheard when I said that I trusted you fine. How is me attempting suicide changing anything?"

"And do try to be original," Sherlock said, setting the take-out on the coffee table and picking up his book again. "Sleep well."

John stared incredulously at him before turning and clomping up the stairs to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

John was spreading marmalade on his toast when Sherlock scampered into the living room.

"Morning," John said, and he was still half-looking at Sherlock as he went to put the knife back in the tub, but he missed and smeared it all over the sleeve of his jumper.

"I can't say I've ever heard of butter-knife suicide," Sherlock snorted. "Definitely original. Now, I realize we didn't establish any rules for this week."

"I'm not attempting suicide." John tried to suck the marmalade off of his sleeve.

"Because you don't trust me."

"Because it's stupid and senseless," John said. He pulled a fuzzball out from between his teeth. "Suicide is serious, Sherlock. It's not right to joke—"

"You're familiar with the trust fall exercise?"

"From primary? One person falls backwards and the other is supposed to catch?"

"Exactly."

"I think you should stick to your sciences and leave the psychology for people who don't advise their flatmates to _commit_ _suicide_."

"Thus the rules," Sherlock said. "Today's Thursday. These first three days, you don't do anything that would actually kill you. I win when I stop you from parodying actually killing yourself. Starting Sunday, I will be the only thing between you and death."

"How many times do you have to win in order to win my trust?" John resumed doctoring his toast.

"I haven't calculated that out. It'll be a new experiment!"

"You don't _experiment_ with _suicide_," John said shortly. "This is a crap experiment, and there's no amount of _winning_ at stopping my quasi-suicide that—"

"Ah," Sherlock interrupted. "Harry, was it?"

"What?"

"Your conservative family history and your sister a lesbian, no doubt it caused some tension. There's a definite higher rate of suicide attempts in the queer community—"

"Yeah," John said. "Bingo. Congratulations. You win the Einstein prize."

"I'm sorry if I—"

"No, Sherlock. You aren't. Not for any of the right reasons, at least. And I'm not going to do it."

"Fall," Sherlock said, opening his arms wide. "Fall. Unless someone in your family has sustained some terrible injury from falling backwards, in which case I do _most sincerely_ apologize for bringing up unwanted memories." John threw down his knife, stood, turned, and fell backwards.

Sherlock wasn't anywhere near behind him, but he dove and managed to prop John up with one arm while grabbing the countertop so he himself didn't tumble. He shoved John back upright and clamboured to his feet, as gangly as John had ever seen him.

"You don't hold a patent on suicide just because you know someone who attempted it," Sherlock said. "And the only reason I suggested it is because we were discussing my ability to save your life from factors that I have no previous knowledge of. There would be no way of ascertaining whether or not I plotted divertible assassination attempts on you, and I would like you to know past all doubt that I can."

"Yes, but three nights ago you couldn't. Anything in the upcoming week that you could prove—"

"You didn't die."

"You didn't know that."

"Of course I knew that." Sherlock span about and began pacing the room. "It just didn't matter whether or not you were going to die when I realized…" He didn't finish, and John didn't push him. "My objectives have shifted, John. I find that I am rather more interested in keeping you whole than simply alive."

"That's rather nice of you, but—"

"Lestrade can't protect you. Not from the likes of what we deal with."

"Who the hell said I wanted protection?"

Sherlock froze mid-step. "You've been defending me ever since we first met, John. From Scotland Yard, from Mycroft, and even from myself. You've killed for me, you've broken laws for me, and you've taken falls for me. I thought we were the type of flatmates that did that for each other."

John picked apart his now-cold toast. Sherlock still wasn't moving.

"So instead of just saying thanks, you want me to try to kill myself so that you can level the score?"

"Stop thinking about it as suicide, then. I'm asking you to assassinate yourself, and I'm promising that I will prevent all assassinations from actually taking place. It doesn't need to become personal. It's a trust exercise. And it has nothing to do with paying you back, it has to do with how we work together."

"This is ridiculous."

"Because the idea of suicide is uncomfortable or because you don't think that I could prevent it?" He spun about and stared at John. John glared back.

"I'll do it," John said. "Your suicide game." The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards and he moved to the window. He peeked through the curtain and was about to turn back around when John asked "Have you, er, ever?" Sherlock froze.

"You'll have to be more clear, John," Sherlock said.

"Ever thought about, you know, offing yourself?"

"Everyone does sooner or later," Sherlock said. He was still staring out the window.

"You know where I'm going with this." John took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "Did you ever attempt anything?"

"What makes you ask?"

"Psychology's not really your area, you're much more dedicated to the hard sciences, and you scoffed at my psychiatrist—you know some of psychology, but you've hardly used it in the cases. Because it's from personal experience, right? And Mycroft's ever keeping an eye on you, but you eat and sleep just fine when no one's looking. There's also a bit of correlation between drug use and depression—"

"Very good deductions."

"That didn't answer my question. Have you?"

"On occasion." Sherlock turned around and bared his teeth in the facsimile of a grin . "Not recently, of course. I'm entirely stable and there's no need to have some heart-to-heart. You said you would participate, so there's no need to air out old events."

"Right," John said. "Well, for the record, I'm glad it didn't ever work out the way you wanted."

Sherlock's smile softened into something real.


End file.
